No one responds. Someone makes an impatient noise. Another man rolls his eyes.

I’m thinking the Anticipation is a big let-down every year. I bet it’s a lot like Christmas, when your parents promise that Santa Claus is on his way and then you find out he’s not real. Maybe Aron of the Cleaver is about as real as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and that’s why no one seems to give a crap about this particular holiday except for the food.

“I shall choose the maiden to serve me,” the prelate says, dragging my attention back to the center of the room. “Once I have picked the honored one, we will say the invocation and proceed to the feasting.”

The prelate moves to the end of the row and begins to eyeball the blonde offerings. One by one, he looks them up and down, and I’m acutely aware that most women are half-naked. Everyone wears the same skirt, but I’m the only one with it hiked up to my tits. This is so incredibly creepy, especially when he reaches out to finger one girl’s curly hair and brushes his fingers over the shoulder of the next, as if judging how smooth her skin is.

Ugh.

He continues down the row, and the room is quiet, the only sound the low murmur of the audience, as if they’re making bets on who he’ll pick. I notice that Sinon is staring at me from afar and I resist the urge to shoot him the finger. That won’t do any good.

I mean, it’d feel good, but I’m in enough trouble as it is.

I’m toward the end of the line, so it doesn’t take long for him to get to me. I slide my hands behind my back before he arrives, hiding the chunk of tile I’m holding. When he moves near, I catch a heavy whiff of herbs, as if he’s bathing in this world’s version of deodorant under those robes.

“Why do your ears have holes?”

I blink. That’s a weird question. “My ears?”

He nods. “Your ears have holes. Why?”

Oh. “They’re pierced? You wear jewelry in them.”

The prelate wrinkles his nose. “Barbaric.”

Is it? I didn’t realize the people here didn’t wear ear jewelry. What a strange thing to notice.

He flicks a hand at the front of my skirt-dress. “I should like to see your breasts. Disrobe.”

So much for being chipper and accommodating. I clutch the front of my dress. “No thanks.”

“What?”

“I mean…no?” I try to smile sweetly. “But ‘no’ in the nicest way, of course.”

He recoils, aghast at my response. “You dare?”

“Well, they’re very shy boobs.” I promise. Something tells me I’m not getting picked.

The prelate flicks his gaze over me one more time. “Pleasant appearance…distasteful personality.” And he moves on.

Sounds like my last annual review at work.

Even so, a knot forms in my throat. I don’t want to be his little slave, but I don’t want to die either. This is the medieval equivalent of “Tits or GTFO” isn’t it? My fear gives way to anger.

Fuck this guy.

Fuck all these guys.

I’m going to go out fighting, I tell myself. This isn’t the end. There has to be more to why I’m here than to just die in a pile of anonymous blondes.

I’ve been dragged from Earth, kicking and screaming. I have to be here for a reason. It can’t be just to die because I won’t flash some jerk my boobs.

There has to be a bigger purpose…doesn’t there? My weird aura means something, doesn’t it?

Unless everyone’s just lied to me…which is beginning to look like it might be a thing.

The prelate continues to sweep down the line, talking to some of the girls and taking his sweet time making his decision. I hold my breath as he approaches Avalla, because I want this for her…if she wants it, of course. She looks up at the prelate with shining, hopeful eyes, practically trembling with awe at the sight of him. It’d be cute if circumstances weren’t so dire…and he wasn’t such a dick. I can see her slump with disappointment when he continues down the line.

Then, he finishes talking to the very last girl, the shortest one, and turns. He walks down the lineup of girls once more and pauses in front of Avalla. “Would you like to serve me, my dear?”

She drops to her knees and begins to kiss his hem. “It would be such an honor, prelate!”

“You may rise.”

I do my best not to curl my lip because this is what she wanted, but man, you’d think the prelate was the god being served around here. Prick.

Avalla gets to her feet, and when the prelate indicates she should follow him, she glances over at me with excitement. I shoot her a thumbs up and give her an encouraging nod. One problem down at least.

Except now the rest of us are cleaver brides. I can already hear someone quietly sobbing down the line. I’m not crying. I’m not giving up. I study the room, trying to figure out where we’ll be executed. If enough of us rush the executioner all at once, some are bound to get away…

The prelate moves to the center of the room, and as he does, a chair is placed next to the empty throne on the dais. It’s not nearly as big as the empty stone seat, but it’s wrought with gold and looks expensive and throne-like just the same. The prelate sits down with a flourish, smoothing his robes. Avalla immediately sits at his feet on the stairs, looking starry-eyed.

He gestures at the throngs stuffed into the temple. “Eat! Eat in honor of Aron of the Cleaver.” He waves at a servant and someone brings him a plate.

There’s a rush toward the table of food, and then the room gets noisy and boisterous. Wine is passed around and the soldiers start to get hammered. I glance down the row of women and no one’s offering us anything. They all continue to stand like statues, the guards in front of us as impassive as the others.

All right, I guess it’s feast time for everyone except the “lucky” cleaver brides. That’s fine. Every hour that they spend getting drunk and stupid on wine is another hour I get to form a plan to get out of here.

As time passes and people grow drunk with wine, the room gets rowdier. Another round of food is brought out, and I watch Avalla offering morsels to the prelate. She’s doing her best not to look giddily happy and glances over at me from time to time, nervous.

More wine is brought out, and I fidget. The broken tile’s cutting into my hand. “How long does this party go on?”

“Until dawn,” the woman next to me says. “We wait for the hour of blood.”

Dawn? So we’re just going to sit here and watch everyone feast all night and wait to die? Man, these guys are dicks.

The drums stop their ominous beats and have been replaced by reedy flutes, and now drunken idiots dance and carouse in the center of the floor. Man, this really is like an office Christmas party. My nerves get more and more shot as the minutes tick past, and I start to worry that I’m not going to be able to get away. That I won’t find a way out of this place.

That I really was brought to this strange world just to die.

I shoot to my feet. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Bathroom?” One of the guards frowns at me.

“Is that not what it’s called? Lavatory? Potty?” When he continues to stare at me blankly, I sigh. “I have to pee.”

“The garderobe?”

“Sure?” I can’t believe this hasn’t come up in conversation yet and here I’ve been in medieval hell for a whole week almost. It doesn’t matter, though. I keep my hand clenched around my bit of sharp tile. Maybe I won’t need to use it after all. “I can escort myself. Just let me know the way.”

The guards exchange looks.

“Sit back down,” a different one says, scowling at me. “You don’t need to go anywhere.”

“My bladder is saying otherwise. You want me to pee all over the place? I’ll do it,” I threaten. “Won’t that be a bit of a party ruiner?” I give them a defiant look.

The second guard sighs. “Fine. I’ll take her.”

The girl next to me stands up. “Wait. I have to go, as well.”

“And me,” says another.